


Something Solid

by whatwasoncesilver



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatwasoncesilver/pseuds/whatwasoncesilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becoming fuck buddies with the guy he's in love with was probably not the best decision Grantaire ever made, but after all, what's a little heartache next to the terrible brilliance of Enjolras' eyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Solid

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon is actually that Enjolras is asexual, but this idea came into my mind and wouldn’t leave, so here we have it!
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely betas Adrienne and Elizabeth. <3

When Éponine corners him near a dumpster next to his building at 2:30 in the morning he’s fairly certain no good can come of it, especially since he’s trying to get back to his apartment as quickly as possible because he’s just realized he’s got bird shit in his hair.

He knew this whole thing would be hardest to talk about with her, since she’s one of his oldest friends, and consequently he’s been ignoring her for a while, hoping to stave off the inevitable.  It was ridiculously stupid of him to think he could escape her, of course, and now he’s being given a lecture on relationships and self-worth and monogamy that accomplishes absolutely nothing.  He’s pretty drunk, and by the time she’s done he’s got a headache and an intense desire to shave his head to get rid of the stench of bird.  So after he finally extracts from her the promise that she won’t talk about Enjolras with him anymore (at least on this particular day) he pulls her up to his apartment so he can take some Advils, clean his hair, and watch _The X Factor_ with her and Bahorel, who is still awake.

God, it’s all such a fucking mess.

She’s right – he really should talk to Enjolras about this thing they’ve got going on.  But how can he when the only kind of courage he has is liquid?  He doesn’t even remember what they were fighting about when it started.  What he _can_ remember from that day is the image of Enjolras fuming, hands clenched, absolutely stunning.  In Grantaire’s mind, his blue irises are bright.  Grantaire has just made some smartass comment and is expecting, as a response, a formulated rant on all the ways he’s dead weight to Enjolras’ cause, complete with a thesis statement and a clever conclusion that finds at least nine new and subtle ways to wound him.  What he does not expect is for Enjolras to let out a short growl of frustration, cross the distance between them in two long strides, and mash their mouths together.

It’s unsurprisingly unromantic even for Grantaire, who has lain awake on countless nightsliving in this very moment, running visions of rose petals and red wine through his mind over and over and over again.  Sometimes, when he gets tired of the fantasies, he’ll be a little more realistic.  He’s even walked himself through this particular scenario – their first kiss as an action quickly to be regretted after the heat of the moment.  Soon Enjolras will pull back, run a hand through his hair, and glare at Grantaire.   _See what you made me do?_ his eyes will say.

Enjolras doesn’t do any of those things.  He stays with his lips connected to Grantaire’s for a little while longer, despite the fact that the brunet isn’t really reacting (the shock is seeping out of his pores), before he pulls back to stare at him.

“Oh,” says Grantaire softly after a moment, and that’s just perfect.   _Oh,_  he says after the guy he’s so desperately pined after for  _years_  finally kisses him.   _Oh._

He should win awards for his eloquence.

Enjolras tugs a yellow curl behind his ear and regards Grantaire with clear eyes.  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he says after a moment.

“I see,” says Grantaire, sounding strangled.  A kind of strange happiness is welling up in his throat and threatening to overcome him.

Enjolras swallows and oh God, Grantaire's going to be sick.  Enjolras is regretting this already, isn’t he? Don’t apologize, don’t apologize, _please_  don’t apologi –

“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras, and it’s probably the first time he’s said that to anyone.

“Shit,” says Grantaire before he can stop himself, “don’t be sorry.  That’s the best thing to happen to me all week.”  It’s the best thing to happen to him ever, actually, but that’s a secret he’ll gladly die with.

Enjolras blinks slowly.  “Really?” he asks.  Grantaire’s mind goes blank like a fuzzy radio, so he just nods and proceeds to stand there like an idiot.  They’re matched in a long moment of uncomfortable silence before Enjolras looks away abruptly.  “I should go,” he says.  He turns and strides out the door of the multipurpose room before Grantaire has time to blink.

And that _should_ be the end of it.  Grantaire goes back to his day-to-day activities – fencing, homework, sharing Pop-Tarts with Bahorel, dancing, dreaming of dying a fiery death so he’ll no longer have to endure the cruel sting of unrequited adoration, the usual.

And then comes the party.

It’s off-campus and Feuilly is the host (it’s probably someone’s birthday or something; he doesn’t care enough to remember since it’s not for a close friend) – and they’re both invited.  This, of course, is something he doesn’t discover until about three hours into the evening, when he stumbles into the living room to find Enjolras on the couch, surrounded by couples making out and staring viciously at the wall.  Something in Grantaire makes a pathetic leap like it always does when he sees him.  Accordingly, he straightens himself out and plops down next to him as coolly as he can, beer still cold in his hand.  “Hey there, hot stuff,” he purrs, and laughs when Enjolras turns to glare at him.

“You’re drunk,” he says.

Grantaire blinks, sniffs, and recoils in surprise.  “So are you,” he says.  It’s true – the smell of alcohol isn’t emanating from the couples around them.  For maybe the first time, Enjolras is past tipsy.

Enjolras presses two fingers to his temple and makes a frustrated noise.  “Why are you here?” he asks through clenched teeth, and Grantaire can’t help but laugh again.

“Why, am I annoying you?” he asks, grinning cheekily.

Enjolras continues to glare at him.  “Why do you always do this?” he asks.

“Do what?” asks Grantaire.

Enjolras waves his hand.  “I can just tell you’re gearing up to be difficult, and I don’t understand _why_.  I’m not even in the middle of a speech or anything; you have nothing to counter.  So why are you doing this?”

Grantaire just stares at him for a bit, eyes widening, lost in the newfound revelation that’s he able to make Enjolras feel something besides annoyance.  He’s interested, isn’t he?  It’s an irritated interest, but he wouldn’t have asked the question if he didn’t want an answer.

Enjolras scoffs.  “Whatever,” he says, and moves to get up.

And Grantaire would react, stop him with some argument that would just lead them into increasingly fouler moods, when somebody’s elbow goes flying into his back and he goes flying into Enjolras’ face.

It takes him less than half a second to decide to lean forward and press Enjolras into the back of the couch, moaning immediately into his mouth.  Not that Enjolras minds, if the way he’s grabbing Grantaire’s messy brown hair and tugging is any indication. Grantaire’s beer drops to the ground with a crash and the couple to their left springs up with a startled cry, cursing.  Grantaire doesn’t even hear them.

“Sorry,” he gasps into Enjolras’ mouth.  “Sorry, this is stupid.”

“For once in your life, stop talking,” Enjolras orders.

“I think we’re drunk,” Grantaire confides.  His chest is tightening and expanding all at once.

“No kidding,” says Enjolras, and hauls Grantaire to his feet.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, stumbling along behind his friend as the latter keeps a death grip on his hand.  “Enjolras?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer him, just trots up some steps into a darker part of the apartment.  He throws open a door and turns away unabashedly at the indignant squawks of the couple he finds inside.  “Enjolras – shouldn’t we shut the do – ” Grantaire begins, and then he’s being pulled away.  His knuckles fly haphazardly into the whitewashed walls as Enjolras tugs him farther away from the party and he brings them up to his mouth to nurse the wound, gaze trained all the while on Enjolras’ back.

Enjolras flies past a few other doors and comes across one at the end of the hall, opening it to find a mercifully empty bedroom.  Grantaire has just the presence of mind to lock the door before Enjolras has latched on his neck like a leech (a sexy, sexy leech, and wow, there’s a problematic image), sucking savagely and pressing him into the wood with his hips.  Grantaire just moans.

They’re too drunk for it to be awkward.  Enjolras doesn’t have much experience, but if the way Grantaire is trembling under the manipulation of his hands is any indication, he’s doing just fine.  When it’s over Enjolras pulls on his clothes and heads out the door without a word, leaving Grantaire breathing heavily and naked on the bed.  But that’s okay.  It’s all cool.  He’ll just die, or at least move to Peru where he never has to see Enjolras again.  It’s fine.  Nothing’s changed.

A few days later, he gets a text.

From: Enjolras

_Can I come over?_

Received 7:32pm

Needless to say, they don’t do much talking.

 

***

 

It happens again.

And again.

And…again.  After a while, it’s clear they’ve got an unspoken arrangement going on.  Enjolras comes and goes without many words, stopping only to ask where the lube is or if he can use Grantaire’s shower.  It’s pretty vanilla, not that Grantaire would ever dare to complain.  The whole thing fills him with a kind of fragile, terrified happiness that threatens to either drown him or make him spontaneously combust at any moment.

Once he’s sure what’s going on, he doesn’t wait for Bahorel to find out.  He doesn’t want his roommate to walk in on them fucking up against a wall or something (it would probably scar the poor guy for life).  He makes him a cup of tea, sits him down, and tells him quite plainly that he’s fucking Enjolras.

Bahorel stares at him for a very long time until Grantaire starts to get uncomfortable.  He shifts and runs a hand through his hair, glancing toward the front door for a few seconds.  “Can you say something?” he asks at last.

Bahorel blinks at him.  “You’re fucking Enjolras,” he says slowly.

“Yes,” says Grantaire.

“I – for how long?” asks Bahorel.

Grantaire clears his throat.  “Since Feuilly’s party,” he says.

Bahorel’s eyes widen.  “Were you _drunk_?”

Grantaire feels like shrinking into himself.  He takes a deep breath.  “Yes, but – ”  Bahorel makes a strangled noise and Grantaire hurries to continue.  “ – Enjolras was too.  And we’ve been sober every time since then.”

Bahorel regards him warily.  “How many times have there _been_?” he asks.

Grantaire rubs the back of his neck.  “Don’t make me answer that,” he says quietly.

Bahorel shakes his head as if to clear it.  “Right, I – sorry.”  They’re silent for a bit, and eventually Bahorel sighs.  “I suppose Enjolras still has no idea you – ” he starts.

“No,” says Grantaire.

“And I suppose it’s useless for me to try to convince you not to do this?” asks Bahorel.

“Yup,” says Grantaire.

Bahorel passes a hand over his face.  “Jesus Christ,” he says softly, and stays that way for a bit.  After a little white he lowers his hand and peers at Grantaire.  “Does everyone else know?” he asks.

Grantaire pauses and saws on his bottom lip.  “No,” he says at last.

Bahorel regards him hesitantly.  “Should I – ” he starts.

“Don’t tell them,” Grantaire interrupts.  “They don’t need to find out.”

They find out.

He’s not entirely sure how, since he trusts Bahorel enough to know he didn’t blab and Enjolras definitely doesn’t consider his relationship with Grantaire worth mentioning to anyone else.  In any case, either Enjolras isn’t aware his friends are informed about the situation, or he doesn’t care.

Sometimes they’ll try to talk to Grantaire about it.  It’s Bossuet who first brings it up, putting a tentative hand on Grantaire’s shoulder after an ABC meeting when everyone else is gone.  “Hey, man,” he says.  “I don’t want to seem insensitive or anything, but this thing between you and Enjolras – ”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says tensely, and shrugs away.  “I can take care of myself.  But thank you.”

Next comes Jehan, who sits down next to him as he’s doing homework in the library.  “R…are you okay?” is what he asks.  “You know Enjolras doesn’t know how you feel about him – ”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk in a library, Jehan,” Grantaire replies tersely.  Jehan chews on his bottom lip and looks like he’s about to say something, but eventually he just sighs before standing up, turning, and walking away, shoes clicking against the shiny floor.  The noise is unnerving in the quiet building.

Combeferre never tries to talk about Enjolras with him.  In a way, it’s worse than confrontation.  All Grantaire gets from him are steady looks, just a second too long as Combeferre meets his gaze during meetings after he catches Grantaire staring at Enjolras.  _I know your secrets,_ the looks say.  _Talk to me if you want, though I doubt you will._ The rest of his friends (besides Éponine, who thinks it necessary to mention how stupid she considers a friends with benefits relationship to be about every five minutes) eventually resort to just watching him warily, shooting him worried glances as they unlock their bikes to go back to their dorms and apartments.

He has to push them away when they talk about Enjolras with him.  It hurts to do it – after all, they take him home when he’s drunk and rub his back when he throws up and put up with all his pessimistic crap.  They’re wonderful, and he can’t count how many times he’s staggered alongside Bahorel with brandy on his breath waxing poetic about how Marius’ nose crinkles up when he laughs and Joly’s smile lights up his face when he talks and Combeferre’s just so  _soft_ , man, you know?  But even in the face of all their kindness, he has to avoid talking to them about Enjolras.  It’s just…if he can pretend this thing between the two of them is just something casual, something light that can be dropped at a moment’s notice, maybe it won’t hurt like hell if it actually happens.

His actions betray his feelings.  He stops seeing other people.  Not that there ever were many people.  He’s just not that kind of guy.  He’s depressed and an alcoholic; he’s got eczema and a nose that’s been broken three times and hair that sheds itself year-round.  Nobody stares at him when he enters a room, nobody buys him beers, nobody offers to teach him how to play pool or swing a golf club or any number of other activities that will get his ass pressed up against some guy’s crotch.  He’s not conventionally attractive; it’s fine.  He’s even made his peace with the fact that he’s never going to be unconventionally attractive either.  Éponine's always trying to convince him he's a catch and he appreciates the effort, but it’s pointless.  What can you do, after all?  Enjolras doesn’t seem to care, and that’s all that really matters.  In the scheme of his life, and apart from his friends, _Enjolras_  is all that really matters.

God, he’s pathetic.  He wasn’t always like this – he’s only been stuck in this state since the first time he saw Enjolras and came alive.  It was like being punched in the heart: Enjolras was standing at a podium, hair curling wildly, hand up in a gesture, and Grantaire woke up and fell off of some precipice, stomach wild and mouth hanging open.  Of course, something inside him died the first time Enjolras touched him with intent, but he’s still stuck adoring him, go figure.  And ever since then he’s been floating through nowhere, aching for ground, searching for something solid to hold on to.  Enjolras makes him happier than he ever dreamed he could be, but one day he’s going to end up a little pile of shattered pieces and he’s not even going to be mad at Enjolras for doing it to him.

These are the things that are running through his mind as he comes down from an orgasm that has him seeing spots, lying on his back on his ratty sheets that probably have a thread count of about thirty.  His fingers rub across the fabric absentmindedly as his mouth opens to ask why they never fool around at Enjolras’ place – he has no roommate, so it would make things much easier logistically – but he stops, like he always does, because there’s just no way the answer can be something that won’t annihilate his heart.

His mind clicks and whirs, searching for something – anything – to say, something that will keep Enjolras in his bed or at least evoke some kind of non-neutral reaction from him.  “I think Kirk is smarter than Spock,” he settles for eventually, and shifts a bit, arm thrown over his head.

“Shut up,” says Enjolras mildly, and Grantaire does.  He’s too happy to say much more.  He watches surreptitiously as Enjolras stretches out, impossibly graceful, and folds himself so that he’s curling on his side.

Toward Grantaire.

Grantaire blinks.  “Are you feeling okay?” he asks.

“Seriously, Grantaire, I’m trying to sleep,” Enjolras mumbles, and Grantaire falls obediently silent.  It’s a problem of his, this doing pretty much whatever Enjolras asks of him.  One of these days Enjolras is going to request that he take his heart out of his chest and lay it in his hands, and Grantaire is so wanna-slit-his-own-throat in love with him that he’ll actually do it.

God, he disgusts himself.

 

***

 

Sometimes, inevitably, it goes horribly wrong, and this fragile equilibrium they have between them breaks.  In his constant struggle to squeeze attention out of Enjolras he’s always straddling the line that separates the pardonable from what will push Enjolras over the edge, and sometimes he missteps.

It’s not that he underestimates him.  Grantaire has seen – many times – the consequences of people underestimating Enjolras, underestimating this man who looks like a boy, a slender figure who can even seem delicate when his curls fall over his neck just so.  When Enjolras unleashes the full force of his intelligence – the music of his eloquence – upon his unsuspecting victims the results are both awesome and terrifying.  So no, Grantaire doesn’t underestimate him.  It’s just that sometimes his cravings to be near him are too intense to be controlled.

Enjolras doesn’t let him get away with it.  He’s like a controlled wildfire with the way he deals out verbal lacerations: in these instances he’s got an effortless passion that lays waste without thought.  It’s at times like these that Grantaire thinks Enjolras has the capability to be the most powerful man on Earth – someone people would give most anything to touch, but lethal as well.  Sometimes he thinks Enjolras could bring people their own deaths and they would love him for it.

“You’re useless when you’re wasted,” Enjolras spits out, lips like flames, each word calculated.  “If you want to drink yourself into a stupor that’s your business, but don’t lounge around here contributing nothing and wasting our time.”

Grantaire swallows.  A little voice in the back of his head, one he doesn’t hear very often, protests that that’s not true.  He _does_ contribute to Enjolras’ cause.  He teaches Enjolras how to be smart during protests, despite the latter’s objections that he doesn’t need to evade the police (“I haven’t been arrested _that_ many times, Grantaire”), and he brings Enjolras food when he’s studying feverishly for his International Relations exam or writing an angry letter to the editor of the school’s newspaper.  Enjolras uses him all the time, evaluating the statistics Grantaire throws at him and countering them with arguments even stronger than the ones he first comes up with.  It’s an exhausting game, but it never fails to make Enjolras a better player.

He comes by the next day to apologize – Combeferre probably made him – and Grantaire tugs him into bed, hands tracing the lines of his back.  “I’m sorry,” says Enjolras (the words sound strange coming off of his lips), and Grantaire shuts him up with a kiss, fingers curling into his hair, breathing in the smells of sweat and sex.  Enjolras’ lashes curve down to his cheeks and Grantaire feels himself sinking.  There’s almost nothing he wouldn’t endure to wake up next to his gaze every day.  As it is, Enjolras is almost always gone when he wakes up (it’s the afternoon, dumbass, what does he expect?), but it’s not like it’s a big deal.

After all, what’s a little heartache next to the terrible brilliance of Enjolras’ eyes?

 

***

 

Enjolras is gorgeous, of course.  But the way he looks up at a podium, fists clenched with devotion, haloed in light like an avenging angel, doesn’t even compare to how he looks kneeling between Grantaire’s legs, slowly twisting two of his fingers inside his ass.  He normally doesn’t talk during sex, but now he’s got a hand on Grantaire’s stomach and is crooning.  “You’re so pretty for me,” he purrs, and Grantaire can only whine.  “Shh,” says Enjolras, and plants a quick kiss on one of his temples.  “Do you want another one?”

“Stupid question,” Grantaire manages to get out between gritted teeth, and his head thuds back against the pillow as his hips jerk up.

Enjolras chuckles.  “Hey, I was just thinking it’s been a while, so…”

“We did it last weekend, asshole, just stick it in me,” Grantaire growls, hand running down the trail of blond hair that wanders down Enjolras’ defined stomach.

“You’re so romantic,” Enjolras mutters, and draws his fingers out slowly, goddamn tease that he is.  Grantaire starts squirming by the time he’s got the third finger in, biting his lip to restrain himself from yelling at Enjolras to go faster, because that will only make his grin wider and his fingers slower, the asshole.

“Hey, c’mon,” says Enjolras, peppering kisses across his neck.  “You can be patient and wait while I open you up, can’t you?  You can be good.”

Grantaire melts back into the bed like he always does when Enjolras tells him to be good and sighs.  “I guess so,” he mutters.  Enjolras grins and gives a sudden twist, making Grantaire yelp.  Laughing, Enjolras leans down and places their mouths together.  The sound of his laughter always makes something warm curl up inside Grantaire, something happy and loud, not even something necessarily sexual.

God, he is _so_ screwed.

Sex with Enjolras is _fun_.  It’s not supposed to be – it’s supposed to be wild and fast, two people racing to the finish line of climax in a dark room before one of them leaves swiftly and without a word at two in the morning.  It’s supposed to be whispered filth behind closed doors and a refusal to look each other in the eye when they’re with their friends, but instead it’s Enjolras reaching into the drawer of the side table to get a condom and drawing back to look at Grantaire, innocent and blinking.  “Okay?” he asks, holding the condom out.

Grantaire swipes it from him, saying, “Yes, yes, I’m _fine_ , I’m prepped already.”  Before Enjolras has a chance to reply Grantaire tosses the condom package onto the nightstand and pushes Enjolras until he’s on his back.  While Enjolras makes a questioning noise Grantaire crawls down his body, licking at the trail of hair that runs down to his cock before taking the half-hard length into his mouth.

Enjolras makes a noise that’s between a groan and a whine and lets his head thud back into the pillow, pushing his hips up.  Grantaire puts a hand over what he can’t reach and the other on Enjolras’ hip to remind him not to choke him and begins sucking.

Enjolras really does whine this time, fingers clenching and unclenching around the sheets.  “Okay – okay,” he says after a minute, pushing at Grantaire’s shoulder.  Grantaire slides off of him and sticks out his lower lip in a pout.  Enjolras gives him a half smile.  “I’m hard enough, okay?  I don’t want to come yet,” he says.  He smacks Grantaire’s ass, making him yelp, and smirks before reaching over to the side table to get the condom.  “On your hands and knees,” he orders, and Grantaire hurries to obey.

Enjolras slides the condom on carefully, adds some lube, and drapes himself over Grantaire, hands wandering down his arms, breath hot in his ear.  “Okay?” he asks, fingers encircling Grantaire’s wrists.

Grantaire swallows.  “Okay,” he says, and Enjolras pushes in.

Grantaire lets out a shaky breath, head dropping so that he’s staring at the bed.  Sweat is dripping into his vision.  “You always do this,” he says through gritted teeth.  “ _Move_.”

Enjolras moves.  The thrusts come fast and hard, just the way Grantaire likes it, just the way it _should_  be, and when one finally hits his prostate he bites his lip so hard he tastes the metallic tang of blood.

“Are you holding back?” Enjolras murmurs, fingers tracing the patterns of his spine.  “You know I don’t like it when you do that.”  He pauses, and Grantaire exhales slowly.  “Let me hear you.”

Grantaire lets him hear him.  He begs, he pants, he screams and moans and moves back to fuck himself on Enjolras' cock.  It doesn’t take much longer until the thrusts start coming faster and harder, and Grantaire’s toes are curling.

It’s too much.  This is too hard.

“You’re perfect like this, you know,” Enjolras murmurs, and Grantaire lowers his head even more so Enjolras doesn’t see him blinking back tears.

 

***

 

Grantaire is sitting on his couch biting his lip with a sketchpad in his lap when his phone buzzes, startling him.  He reaches over after a second (his hand trembles) and brings up the text with a flick of his thumb.  It’s from Combeferre.   _Can you make sure Enjolras has dinner?_ it says.   _He hasn’t eaten all day._

Grantaire glances at the clock.  It’s 5pm.  He texts him back – _don’t worry, I’ll make sure he eats something_ – and turns off his phone.

Enjolras texted him that morning to ask if he could come over in the evening.  And it’s not the fact that he texted that’s strange – he’s been doing it more and more often, after all – but that he didn’t ask to come over immediately.  When Enjolras texts Grantaire it’s usually followed by him knocking on the door less than half an hour later, kicking off his shoes, grabbing Grantaire by the front of his shirt, and pulling him into the bedroom.  He doesn’t stop and wait and plan out how their time together is going to go.  Who would, with Grantaire?

He sighs and puts his sketchpad down on the coffee table in front of him, but when he reaches over for the glass of water he put on the side table to his right his hand shakes so much he knocks it over.  Some of the liquid soaks into his shirt.

Shit.  He’s sober, that’s the problem.  He was about to crack open a beer in the morning, but then he got Enjolras’ text.  Enjolras won’t fuck him if he’s liquored up, so he decided, idiot that he is, that he could last the rest of the day without having his alcohol fix.  Now it’s too late.  Enjolras would smell it on his breath, and he’d give Grantaire that special disappointed look only Enjolras can give.   _Really, Grantaire?  You only had_ one  _drink?_

It’s okay.  Just a few more hours, and he can have his fix.  Just a few more.

Grantaire picks up the glass carefully and wipes the water away with his sleeve.  He’s heading toward his bedroom to change his shirt when the intercom buzzes.  He changes course to grab a towel from the kitchen, skids over to the intercom, clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and pushes the button.  “Hello?” he says, and winces.  It sounds like he swallowed gravel.

“It’s me,” comes the tinny voice.  Grantaire buzzes him in.

When Enjolras knocks Grantaire is dabbing the towel against his shirt, and he flips the dishcloth over his shoulder before he composes himself and opens the door.  He’s promptly taken aback.

Enjolras looks exhausted.  And while this isn’t unusual - Enjolras will gladly work himself to the point of collapse if no one stops him – he’s never shown up at Grantaire’s looking like this before.  It’s true that it’s the end of the day, and Enjolras has four classes on Wednesdays (not that Grantaire’s memorized his schedule.  That would be creepy), so he’s entitled to be tired.  But it’s just a tad too…intimate.  Too domestic, to show up at Grantaire’s apartment looking like he just needs someone to look after him – someone who can wrap him up in blankets and brush his hair, read him happy stories of places not ripe with revolution – someone who can arrange the alphabet noodles in his soup to spell out ENJOLRAS ROX, someone who can show him what it would be like to not have the weight of the world on his shoulders every single moment of every single day.

Enjolras chose to show up at his apartment looking vulnerable, and something inside Grantaire breaks.

Enjolras smiles weakly.  “Can I come in?” he asks, gesturing to the inside of Grantaire’s apartment.  Snow is sparkling through his hair.

Grantaire blinks.  “Sure.”  He steps aside and closes the door after Enjolras wipes his feet on the welcome mat and enters.  When he turns around Enjolras is unwinding his scarf from around his neck and holding it in two hands, the snow dripping onto Grantaire’s wooden floor.  Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.  His cheeks are flushed red.

Grantaire reaches out for the scarf silently and hangs it on a hook near the door.

“Is Bahorel home?” Enjolras asks while undoing his coat buttons.  His fingers look frozen.

“He’s hanging out with Bossuet,” says Grantaire.  “Do you want tea or something?”  At Enjolras’ blank look he elaborates.  “You look like you’re freezing.”

Enjolras nods slowly.  “Tea would be nice.”  He takes a moment.  “Thanks.”

As Enjolras hangs up his coat Grantaire makes his way into the kitchen and hangs the dishcloth on a hook near the fridge before boiling some water and plopping a tea bag into a china mug.  Enjolras likes his tea as black as his soul, so Grantaire has to resist the urge to put some substance on the kid’s bones by stirring sugar and cream into the drink.

After the tea is prepared he makes his way out of the kitchen and stops abruptly in the doorway, staring at where Enjolras has lowered himself onto the couch.  He’s striking in fitted black jeans and a dark blue button-down, his nose tinged red, but what’s got Grantaire staring is the sketchbook he has sitting in his lap.

Enjolras looks up.  “Is this yours?” he asks, holding up the sketchpad.

Grantaire walks forward slowly, mentally flying through the pages of his sketchbook and wondering how many pictures of Enjolras there are for said man to find.  His head hurts.  When he doesn’t answer Enjolras looks back down at the page in front of him, fingers hovering over the pencil lines.  “Whose are these?” he asks.

Grantaire cranes his neck.  The page offers drawings of two large eyes complete with long lashes and striking brows.  They’re narrowed slightly, and the irises – which would be light, if they were colored – shine through their pencil marks.

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmurs, and plucks the book out of Enjolras’ fingers deftly before the latter can protest.  Enjolras blinks at him.  “They’re Combeferre’s,” says Grantaire.

Enjolras frowns.  “I didn’t know you could draw like that,” he says.

“I’m an art major,” says Grantaire slowly.  “I’ve been drawing since I was a kid.”  He pauses.  Enjolras doesn’t say anything.  “I know I stopped for a while,” Grantaire continues, “but I’ve been drawing since you met me.”

“I thought you mostly did painting.  Besides, you never let me see your art,” answers Enjolras, and levels him with a steady gaze.  “You’re good.”

Grantaire runs a hand through his hair and looks away uncomfortably.  Abruptly he picks up Enjolras’ tea from where he put it down on a coaster and shoves it at his friend.  “Here.  Drink this,” he says.  Enjolras sips obediently and Grantaire plops himself down next to him, putting a foot up on the table and leaning his head into his hand, elbow on the couch arm.

Enjolras’ gaze wanders around the room as he drinks his tea.  It makes Grantaire nervous.  When he’s done with the drink he puts it on the coffee table and Grantaire looks at his knees.  “You don’t look so good,” he says at last, and then winces internally at how hopeless he is at being a booty call, one of the few things he’s supposed to be good for.  But it’s not even the fact that now Enjolras will be less likely to sleep with him that’s the problem – it’s the fact that he’ll be less likely to let Grantaire put his hands on him, feel his curls, massage his muscles, take _care_ of him.

“You look tired,” Enjolras answers in kind, tilting his head slightly.  A soft curl falls in front of his right eye.

Grantaire looks away.  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” he says.

“Do you want me to leave?” asks Enjolras.

“No.”  

When Grantaire doesn’t say anything more, Enjolras stands and holds out his hand.  Grantaire blinks and looks up at him, but when he doesn’t move Grantaire puts out his hand hesitantly and lets Enjolras help him up.  Enjolras keeps their fingers intertwined as he pulls Grantaire into his bedroom gently, dims the lights, and shuts the door.

Their fucking is slow and considerate tonight, dangerously close to something Grantaire won’t name.  He counts the beads of sweat that glisten across Enjolras’ back like stars – how fitting that a seraph fallen to Earth should still resemble the sky – and bites his lip to stop from crying out the truth when he comes.  Enjolras kisses him when they’re done and gets up to take a long shower.  Grantaire downs a beer, and when Enjolras is gone he curls up in his scent and breathes himself to sleep.

Enjolras never ended up eating anything.

 

***

 

Grantaire doesn’t drink to try to vanquish his troubles.  And he sees the pitying way people look at him, the way they shake their heads and give him their sympathy like he’s a poor besotted idiot trying to drown his troubles in a bottle, trying so desperately to move himself into a different world – but he doesn’t use his drinking as a kind of solution.  He tried, at first – tried to suffocate, tried to smother himself in the liquid taste of dissolution until the color of Enjolras’ irises finally disappeared from memory.

Enjolras never fades.  Not his eyes, not the curve of his mouth, not his hair or his neck or even something as stupid as his _elbows_.  They’re locked somewhere in the back of Grantaire’s body and it was a fool’s errand to ever try to wash them away.

Now when he drinks he does so to feel the cool ghost of Enjolras’ fingers caressing his chin – the specter of an embrace, the memory of a kiss – and all the while he scoffs at the cliché that is his life: the pining fool who venerates the ground beneath an angel’s feet.

Sometimes, when it’s dark, he can see the blurred outline of Enjolras’ wings.

 

***

 

Grantaire immortalizes him on canvases of red and gold and blue, draws him over and over again, copies him onto the pages of his sketchbooks and burns the drawings in the middle of the night wherever it’s safe to do so.  He watches the flames go up with a beer in his hand (those flames flicker through his mind when he dances and when he boxes).  It’s not the smartest thing in the world to be drinking while he does this, but if there’s one thing to be said for Grantaire it’s that he can hold his alcohol.  And if there are two things to be said, well, he lives off of ramen noodles and whiskey; he’s pretty sure there’s mold growing on his ceiling and the word “laundry” is not even in his vocabulary.  He’s not one for self-preservation.

Éponine invites herself over one winter’s day, bustling through the door and whining, “Coffee.  I need coffee,” before Grantaire has a chance to say anything.

“Hello, ‘Ponine,” he greets, shutting the door.

“Mmph,” she says.  She’s dumped herself on the couch with a soft sigh, tired from her job waitressing at a nearby restaurant, and is now carding her hand through her hair, pulling it away from her eyes.

“Make me one too,” Bahorel hollers from his room.

“I thought you were going to take a nap,” Grantaire shouts back at him.

“That was before I remembered I have a twenty page paper due tomorrow,” Bahorel yells in response.

Shaking his head, Grantaire makes his way into the kitchen.  He’s just heading toward the coffee pot when he catches sight of the mug Enjolras used the first time he drank something at Grantaire’s apartment.  It’s sitting on the countertop next to the drying rack, and he’s been avoiding looking at it ever since he left it there.  He approaches it slowly, something rising inside his chest.  His fingers go out to skirt around the mug tentatively; they brush its side and he shivers when he finds it cold.

He turns abruptly and walks over to the coffee machine, plugging it in and placing the pot under the filter.  Waiting for it to fill, he taps his foot impatiently and lets his gaze wander around the cabinets, carefully keeping his mind occupied with anything except the image of the mug.  When the pot is finally full he grabs it and pours the brown liquid into three mugs.

When he makes his way out of the kitchen with Bahorel’s coffee in hand he looks around to find Éponine nowhere in sight.  “’Ponine?” he calls, and gets no answer.  He delivers the coffee to Bahorel’s eager hands and walks back to the kitchen to fetch the two remaining mugs, calling Éponine’s name as he does so.  Getting nothing once more, he moves to the couch and sits carefully, placing the mugs on coasters.  When a few seconds go by and there’s still no sign of his friend, he reaches over to the side table where he keeps his sketchbook, intending to touch up a drawing of Bossuet – which is when Éponine waltzes in from the bathroom, deposits herself next to Grantaire with a flounce of her skirt, and reaches over to pluck the sketchbook from his fingers before he can stop her.

As he protests with a series of indignant squawking noises she frowns at the page in front of her, flips it over after a few seconds, and feigns hurt.  “I can’t believe the first two pictures I see in your sketchbook don’t even feature me.  What am I, chopped liver?” she asks.  He makes grabby hands at her, which she studiously ignores.  Flipping over a few more pages she tilts the book to the side to more closely examine a picture of Enjolras lying sideways on a couch.  It’s a vision from Grantaire’s mind, something that came to him in excruciating detail in a dream.  ‘Ponine traces her fingers over Enjolras’ softly curling lashes, each one vivid as the next, and moves on to the creases of his closed eyelids.  For a moment Grantaire's sure she’s going to castigate him, but all she ends up saying is, “You’d better not have pornographic drawings of him in here.”         

Grantaire swipes the sketchbook away from her and sets it down on the side table pointedly.  “So,” he says.  “What’s up with you?”

Éponine narrows her eyes, expertly framed in dark brown liner.  “Are we going to talk about that?” she asks, nodding to where he’s set his sketchpad down.

“No,” says Grantaire.  Éponine gives him a Look.  Grantaire lets out a huff and shoves a hand through his hair.  “Really, ‘Ponine?” he says.  “Come on, is it anything we haven’t discussed before?”

She tilts her head to the side, chocolate brown waves falling over her shoulders, and she is lovely.  If only he could fall for her, how much easier would his life be?  They could be so perfect for each other, if only they could stop dreaming of Marius and Enjolras, stop wishing they could make meals for two and wake up next to them in the mornings and clean them in the shower and rub lotion onto their feet when the skin cracked.

Grantaire bites his thumbnail, sits back, and says nothing in the face of Éponine’s squinting appraisal.  “You’ve been drawing him more,” she remarks, voice totally devoid of tone.

He looks away.  “You’re one to talk,” he says cruelly – but really, she’s been his friend for ages.  She saw the way he was cracked wide open the first time he saw Enjolras, saw the way he was trampled on for everyone to see the first time Enjolras unwittingly called him out during an ABC meeting.  She shouldn’t be breaching this topic, especially after he and Enjolras have started this thing of theirs.  “How’s the whole getting over Marius thing going, huh?” he asks to get his mind off the subject that makes him want to down an entire bottle of Pepto-Bismol.  “Have you even been trying?”

She picks up a mug and frowns at him.  “I’m going to ignore that and give you the same lecture I've given you a thousand times,” she says.

“Here we go,” says Grantaire, and sinks into the couch.

“This is not healthy,” she says, staring at him and sipping her coffee.  “Sleeping with him, no strings attached, is not good for you.  Don’t you know you’re worth more than that?”

“Éponine, please,” he says.  “I can’t deal with this right now.  Can we please stop talking about it and just watch a movie?”

Éponine sighs, and, looking like she wants to say something else, starts, “Bahorel – ”

“We won’t disturb him,” says Grantaire.  “We’ll keep the volume down.  Besides, his door is closed and he listens to music when he works.”  When Éponine doesn’t say anything, he sighs and takes her hand.  “I’m fine, ‘Ponine,” he says.  “I swear.”

“Oh, honey.”  Her gaze darts between his eyes sadly before she sighs and squeezes his hand.  “I just wished I believed you.”

He gives her a smile that doesn’t make it past his lips.  “I’m going to make some popcorn, okay?” he says, and stands to walk to the kitchen.

Éponine watches him go before sighing, turning off her phone, and sinking into the couch.

 

***

 

There’s a dance competition he’s going to participate in starting tomorrow; it’ll last about a week, so Grantaire decides to visit Enjolras before he leaves.  The latter has a paper due soon, something Grantaire tells Éponine; she, in turn, gives him some leftovers from the restaurant for him to give to Enjolras.  He kisses her cheek and she grumbles.

Of course, since he’s Grantaire, he loses track of time in favor of completing a series of sketches, and when he finally looks at a clock he curses.  It’s late, but knowing Enjolras, he’ll still be awake, so Grantaire puts on a coat and heads out.

When he arrives he presses the button with Enjolras’ name on it, but doesn’t get a reply.  He waits, tries again, and is unsuccessful.  Enjolras is probably listening to music, which doesn’t bode well for Grantaire.  He decides to try the button again and his hand slips – he accidentally presses the name of someone else, who thankfully buzzes him in without comment, perhaps expecting a guest of their own.

Grantaire jogs up the stairs – the elevator is broken – and makes it to Enjolras’ door, which he proceeds to knock on.  There’s no reply, and he calls out his friend’s name.  Enjolras doesn’t answer; Grantaire tries the door and finds it unlocked.  “Enjolras?” he calls out.  There’s no response, and Grantaire closes the door behind him hesitantly, taking a few cautious steps forward.  “Enjolras?” he tries again.  There’s no sound except the soft pitter-patter of his feet, and he makes his slow way toward the bedroom; there’s a line of light under the door.  As he takes a few more steps he can hear the sounds of furious typing, the clicks of finger pads hitting a keyboard, and maybe the slurping of water passing from a bottle through a pair of lips.

He stands in front of the door warily for a few seconds.  After calling out Enjolras’ name and still getting no reply he opens the door and peers in.

Enjolras is sitting at his desk, laptop in front of him, working late into the night with the kind of fierce single-minded self-destruction the like of which Grantaire has only ever seen in the bottom of his own bottles and felt on his tongue, sitting heavy with the stench of absinthe.  He’s got earplugs in and his curls are escaping his ponytail and plastering against the side of his face, sticking with sweat.  When he turns to glance at some papers to his right Grantaire can see that his shirt is open at the top and his bright blue eyes are fevered.

It’s at times like these – times that are growing more and more frequent – that even Grantaire, who has put this man on a pedestal for so long and kissed the sandals on his feet (except not really because that would be weird), sees him as human.

After all, avenging angels never had to work so hard.

Affection wells up in his throat, affection for this man who is really just a boy, trying so hard to change the world.  And even though Grantaire dreads the day Enjolras becomes disillusioned, bitter with the human race and finally broken down by all that’s happened to him, he wouldn’t change this picture for all the world.

In a moment of daring, and with a swift pulsing inside his chest, he darts forward and drops a little kiss on top of Enjolras’ head, and the boy honest to God _squeaks_.  As he swivels around in his chair, looking frenzied, Grantaire covers his mouth with his hand, trying not to laugh and failing miserably.  Enjolras blinks wildly and removes his earplugs.  “How long have you been here?” he asks.

Grantaire shrugs.  “Only a minute.  You really should lock your door.”

Enjolras blinks again.  “Why are you here?”

Grantaire looks down at the food in his hand.  “‘Ponine had some leftovers at the restaurant, and she thought you should take them,” he says.  At Enjolras’ blank stare he elaborates with: “Since you sometimes forget to eat when you’re working hard.”

Enjolras stares down at the Styrofoam container as though he can’t identify what it is before his gaze flickers back up to Grantaire.  “What time is it?” he asks.

Grantaire shifts his weight so that it’s concentrated on his left hip.  “Midnight?” he tries.

Enjolras glances at the bottom right-hand corner of his laptop screen.  “2:30, more like it,” he corrects.

Grantaire sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “I’ll just leave the food and go.”

“No,” Enjolras says suddenly, causing Grantaire’s gaze to jump back to his.  “Don’t go.  I could use the company.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows.  “ _My_  company?  At 2am?”

Enjolras shrugs, almost defensively.  “Why not?”

“Okay…” says Grantaire slowly, mystified, and puts the food next to Enjolras before sitting on the edge of the bed.

They don’t fuck this time.  Enjolras talks to him for a while as he works on his paper – multitasking at its finest – and takes small bites of food at Grantaire’s prompting; eventually Grantaire coaxes him into bed.  Enjolras shucks off his socks and kisses Grantaire’s cheek (and that’s the sleep deprivation acting) before he crawls under the sheets, smiling sleepily at Grantaire as his fingers curl over the edge of the bedcover.  “I have something to tell you,” he says.  “Remind me when I wake up.”

“What – ” says Grantaire, but Enjolras is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Grantaire pushes his yellow curls away from his face and brushes his thumb against his cheek.  If Enjolras let him, he’d stay in this inexplicable paradise forever.  But Enjolras is asleep, so he only stays a little longer before he goes home.

 

***

_Enjolras pushes him down onto the bed and straddles his hips._

_"Too many clothes,” Grantaire mumbles, fumbling with the buttons of Enjolras’ shirt.  “Why are you still wearing clothes?”_

_"You know what we’ve never done?” Enjolras breathes against his neck, ignoring the question._

_Grantaire is distracted by a bead of sweat running down Enjolras’ neck and reaches up to lick it off.  “Spanking?” he asks hopefully, and puts his mouth on the triangle of exposed skin below Enjolras’ collarbone._

_Enjolras shakes his head.  “Toys,” he corrects, and grinds his hips down when Grantaire keens.  “Wouldn’t you look all pretty for me like that, as I pushed it in and out of you?”_

_"You can’t_ say _things like that,” Grantaire pants._

_Enjolras bites his lip and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth before he lets out a sigh, strands of hair trailing across Grantaire’s skin.  “Grantaire,” he breathes against his neck, “I – ”_

A buzzing from Grantaire’s phone manages to wake him and he gropes automatically at his bedside table, groggy.  Once he’s got the device in hand he peers at the screen in case it’s Enjolras.  It’s not, but he reads the text anyway.

 

From: Courfeyrac

_i am so sorry please don’t kill me IT WAS AN ACCIDENT I SWEAR_

Received 12:57pm

 

Three subsequent texts come in in the time it takes him to retrieve his cell and read the first one, but he doesn’t bother looking at who sent them.  He’s got six missed calls and two additional texts as well, from whom he doesn’t check.  Suddenly exhausted (he just got back from the competition and all he wants to do is _sleep_ ), he elects to ignore everyone’s attempts to contact him and turns off his phone before burrowing down into his blankets, attempting to melt back into his dream even though he really should be doing that homework that was due a month ago.  There’s a short peace that is then shattered by a series of knocks; the sounds are loud in the quiet apartment.

He’s fully prepared to ignore them, but they come again, and again.  Groaning, he pulls himself out of bed, running a hand through his messy hair before stumbling his way out of his bedroom and into the living room.  He meets an equally sleepy Bahorel, who is coming out of his own room, and his roommate yawns.  “Are you expecting someone?” he asks.

Grantaire gives him a blank look.  “When have I ever expected anyone before 6pm on a Saturday?” he asks.

“Good point,” says Bahorel.

Grantaire yanks open the door, prepared to verbally defenestrate whoever’s standing on the other side, to find a dripping wet Enjolras.  He stares at him for a moment (Jesus, the way his pants are clinging to his body) before asking, slowly, “Is it raining?”

Enjolras blinks at him.  Droplets cling to his eyelashes and embrace the curve of his neck; they dampen his shirt underneath his open jacket and fall through the curls of his hair.  “Can I come in?” he asks.

Grantaire hesitates for a second.  “Um,” says Bahorel from the background, and Grantaire had forgotten he was there.  “I’m going to go – buy some tacos.  Yeah,” he finishes awkwardly, and scrambles back to his room, presumably to get changed.

Grantaire turns back to Enjolras, who is gazing at him.  His friend raises his eyebrows and Grantaire steps aside.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Come in.”

Enjolras gives him a curious glance as he enters.  “Were you sleeping?” he asks, sounding faintly apologetic, though not as apologetic as Grantaire thinks he should.

Grantaire glances down at his pajamas and then back up at Enjolras.  “It’s 12pm on a Saturday,” he says.  “Of course I was sleeping.”

“It’s past 1, actually,” Enjolras corrects demurely.

They stand there looking at each other for a second before Grantaire finally has the presence of mind to close the door.  “Did someone buzz you into the building?” he asks.

“Someone was leaving and held the door open for me,” Enjolras explains.  “Neither of you was answering the intercom.”

“That’s because we were sleeping,” says Grantaire.  Enjolras doesn’t answer, so they stand there silently for a moment before Grantaire asks, “So do you want me to take your jacket, or – ?”

Enjolras regards him warily before finally shaking his head.  “No, I – wanted to ask you something, actually,” he says.  He’s making a little puddle on the floor.

“Okay,” says Grantaire, and folds his arms across his chest.  “Shoot.”

Enjolras lowers his gaze, lets out a little huff, and looks back at Grantaire.  A strand of yellow hair falls in front of his eyes and he pushes it back impatiently.  “Courfeyrac said you’re in love with me,” he says quietly.  It’s strange, because he doesn’t lower his voice very often.  Softness for him is as foreign as peace of mind is for Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t say anything.  What can he do, after all?  After all this has happened?  Four months ago he would have eviscerated Courfeyrac in his sleep, but now…

He takes a few steps away from Enjolras and picks up a bottle from the table to the right of the couch.  He frowns when he finds it empty.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras impatiently.

Grantaire sighs and puts the bottle down.  “What do you want me to say?” he asks.  “Are you really surprised?”

Enjolras is quiet for a moment.  “You never told me,” he points out eventually.

Grantaire laughs.  He doubles over, clutches at his stomach, feels the tears leaking out.  “Shit,” he gasps.  “I didn’t _tell_ you?   _That’s_  your comeback?”

Enjolras is regarding him with a mixture of irritation and alarm - and perhaps just a smidgen of worry.  “Are you drunk?” he asks instead of answering him.

Grantaire closes his eyes and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair.  “For once, Enjolras, no.  I am not.”  He opens his eyes and grins, a desolate action.  “Why, are you looking to get laid?”

Enjolras frowns and takes a few steps forward.  “Stop that,” he says, and he just looks so _cute_  when he’s frustrated.

“Stop what?” Grantaire asks, just to goad him.

Enjolras waves a hand in his frustration.  “Stop reducing me to this lust driven asshole who only wants you for sex.”

Grantaire leans against the couch and crosses his arms, regarding Enjolras coolly.  There’s a strange pounding in his stomach.  “So?” he asks eventually, after all they’ve done is stare at each other for a few moments.  “Why are you here?”

“I asked you a question,” Enjolras points out.

“Technically,” says Grantaire, listening closely to the stuttering in his chest, “you didn’t.”

Enjolras puts a hand over the side of his face and breathes.  When his fingers fall to his side a few moments later he starts forward, eventually aborting his mission and letting out a huff that briefly lifts a curl hanging down the side of his face.  He tucks it behind his ear as a drop of rainwater slides down the smooth skin of his cheek.  “Are you in love with me?” he asks.

Grantaire lowers his gaze and runs a hand through his hair.  “Didn’t I pretty much answer this already?” he asks softly.

“Please,” says Enjolras.  There’s a silence, and then, more quietly than he’s probably said anything, he asks again: “Do you love me?”

Grantaire hasn’t read many romance novels (or any, at that), but he’s fairly sure it’s not normal for the heroine to feel her blood rushing in her ears as she confesses her undying love to the man who will then proceed to ravish her, tear off her clothes and hold her down and just –

“Yes,” he says, and slides onto one of the couch seats.  It’s so bizarrely easy, after all this time.  This scenario and its permutations have been haunting him for years – him telling Enjolras in a coffee shop or in the hallway after Enjolras’ political science class or even in bed after a good fuck or two – and now Courfeyrac’s gone and told Enjolras, probably in a moment of drunken ineloquence, and it’s out in the open like Grantaire never tried to hide it in the first place.

Enjolras is quiet for a protracted amount of time.  Grantaire stares resolutely at nothing.  Finally Enjolras sits next to him, hands folded in his lap.  The cushion under him becomes damp with rainwater as he stares out vaguely in front of him.  “I’m not – quite sure what to do with that,” he says finally.

Grantaire looks down at his hands, tears stinging fiercely.  It’s ridiculous for him to cry; he always knew Enjolras never felt the same way.  He never shoots Grantaire looks except when they’re filled with irritation or confusion; he never once brought up the proposition of establishing a real relationship and he sure as hell never draws Grantaire in his sketchbooks, caressing each grey line with the tip of his pencil as if trying to make himself disappear into the marks.  Enjolras’ devotion has never been directed at anything besides his friends and the concepts of liberty and equality.

Enjolras casts a glance at him.  “How long?” he asks.

Grantaire looks away.  “Does it matter?” he asks.

“Yes,” says Enjolras firmly.

Grantaire glances at him.  “I don’t know,” he says.   _Ever since I first laid eyes on you._   “A couple of years.”

Enjolras makes an unhealthy choking sound.  “A couple of years,” he says.  “A couple of – ”  He breaks off, squeezes his eyes shut, and passes a hand over his face.  He’s silent for a while.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks at last.

Grantaire shrugs without looking at him.  “I may be self-destructive, Enjolras, but even I don’t want to have to sit through your speech of how you like me a lot and hope we can still be friends.”

He doesn’t see it, but Enjolras opens his eyes.  “What?” he asks, staring.  “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Grantaire looks at him without much hope.  “Oh?  What were you going to say, then?”

“I don’t want to dump you, okay?” says Enjolras.

Grantaire’s heart starts palpitating so rapidly it feels like it’s going to break.  “Okay,” he says carefully.

“I like you a lot,” says Enjolras.

“Just not like I like you,” Grantaire counters.

Enjolras regards him, and there’s something in his gaze Grantaire doesn’t have the tools to dissect.  “Let me buy you dinner,” he says.

Grantaire blinks.  “What?”

“Come on.”  Enjolras tosses his head, sending his curls flying and droplets sprinkling all over the place.  There’s a small smirk on his face.  “I’ll be a perfect gentleman.  Won’t even feel you up until the third date.”

Grantaire stares at him.  “Did the guys talk you into this?” he asks.

Enjolras blinks, looking taken aback and almost offended.  “I wouldn’t let anyone talk me into taking someone out if I didn’t want to,” he says.

Grantaire glares at him.  “So what, you found out poor Grantaire was in love with you and decided you’d take him out to dinner out of _pity_?”

“No!” says Enjolras, looking as frustrated as Grantaire’s ever seen him.  “This wasn’t a split-second decision, and I don’t _pity_ you.  I was going to tell you I wanted more before you left for that competition, but then I had that paper to finish, and you came over but I was sleep deprived so I thought I’d wait to tell you, but you were gone when I woke up and you never answered my calls.”

“I forgot my phone at home,” says Grantaire.  “Didn’t Bahorel tell you?”

Enjolras glowers at him.  “Yes,” he says, “but I also called you today to tell you I was coming over.”

“I was sleeping!” Grantaire protests.

“Okay, fine, _whatever_ , that’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” asks Grantaire frustratedly.

“The point,” says Enjolras, and shoves a hand through his hair, “is that I don’t want you to think I want to go out with you because of pity.  I wanted to ask you out even before Courfeyrac told me you were in love with me.”

There’s a loud squawk from the doorway and they turn to see Bahorel staring at them with an open mouth.  He’s wearing street clothes and he blinks rapidly, gaze switching quickly between their faces before he straightens, takes a deep breath, and strides forward, eyes fixed resolutely on the front door.  “Tacos,” he mutters.  “Tacos.”  He closes the door loudly.

Grantaire sighs and turns back to Enjolras.  “Did you sleep with anyone else?” he asks.  “While we were…you know.”

Enjolras looks confused.  “No…” he says eventually.  “I know we weren’t exactly together, but I always thought of us as exclusive.”  He pauses.  “Didn’t you?”

Grantaire huffs.  “I can’t believe you think you need to ask that question,” he says.

Enjolras smiles.  “So?” he asks after a moment, when Grantaire does nothing but stare down at his hands.  “Dinner?  We can celebrate your victory.”  When Grantaire just looks at him blankly, Enjolras tilts his head to the side, smirking.  “Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t win something at the competition,” he says.

“Silver,” Grantaire admits begrudgingly, “but that doesn’t matter.”

Enjolras frowns.  “Why not?” he asks.

Grantaire looks up at him from beneath the fall of his lashes.  “I’m not good for you,” he says.

“Yes you are,” says Enjolras firmly.  “What else you got?”

“You’re not going to cure me,” Grantaire mutters rebelliously.

“Jesus, Grantaire, you’re not a disease,” says Enjolras.  “You don’t need to be cured.”

“I’m still an alcoholic,” Grantaire reminds him.

“So?” says Enjolras.  “I want to be with you.  And I won’t be the answer to your problems, but I can try to help.”  He laces their hands together and tugs on Grantaire’s fingers.  “We’ll make it work.”

“We’ll make it work,” Grantaire echoes, dazed, mulling the words over with curved lips.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows.  Nobody says anything for a few seconds.  “Did I ever tell you you’re unreasonably cute when you have bedhead?” asks Enjolras suddenly, randomly, free hand brushing over Grantaire’s hair.

“Oh my God,” says Grantaire, and covers his face with his hand.

Enjolras grins.  “Seriously,” he says.

Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras’ shoulder.  “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

Enjolras coaxes Grantaire off of his shoulder and kisses him softly.  “You’re adorable,” he says.  “Deal with it.”  He kisses him again, and then leans forward to wrap his arms around Grantaire.  His ear presses against the side of Grantaire’s face and his hand goes up to fist the hair at the back of his head, his jacket pressing a damp spot onto Grantaire’s pajama top.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispers against Enjolras’ neck, and Enjolras smiles.

Grantaire’s grin could save the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi at [whatwasoncesilver.tumblr.com](http://www.whatwasoncesilver.tumblr.com) if you feel so inclined. :)


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